One Call Does it All

Future? 
Collage, 2023. vivajoyriot 

Len Pelaratti’s bulky rectangular frame, wrapped loosely in a frayed, once-midnight blue velour robe, fills 

his doorway. He clears his throat with a gusty emphatic aHEM. His 80/20 salt -to-pepper ratio head recoils

and he juts his chin in an unconscious tic. He doesn't want to move from the doorway. He doesn’t want to move at all. 

“Pelaratti, how many years have you been a tenant in my building?”

He’s unaccustomed to the expectation of providing answers. He’s much better at demanding them, at hiding in wait for the other person to reveal a flaw, a dropped stitch in their logic, a hairline fracture in their argument. At the short but brilliant zenith of his career, he could make a witness squirm with a single question, and break into a full sweat with two. Back then, judges dreaded his name on the docket, so merciless was his approach - crucifying perfectly justified  plaintiffs to their seats with their own words. 

I know this about him, and know better than to give him even a millimeter of rope with which to hang me. The lesson is hammered for perpetuity into my consciousness:  silence is sometimes the worst answer you can get.

He tracks my eyes, now resting on the desk I spot over his shoulder. Towers of manila folders rest peacefully under a thick grey frosting of dust. He shifts his girth over the fulcrum of his impossibly hairy legs in an attempt to block my sight line. 

“Keeping busy, I see.” 

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.” His chin traces an uppercut towards my face. 

Consider it a gift in exchange for your lack of rent, I think.  But this is one battle of words I’m willing to sit out if it means winning the war. 

I drop the corner of a slim white envelope on his sternum. We both know that inside eviction papers rest, with the power and poor aim of a baby rattler. 

“It’s time for you to move on”.  As he takes the envelope I conduct a quick scan of the rest of the dark living room. I forgot how spacious it is. I could fit Mom’s baby grand in here, and free up that $188.52 a month in storage fees. Or make this my whole unit my office/studio. Or rent the thing out for actual income, for once. The phantom promise of the tang of fresh paint sets my dopamine receptors to smoldering. 

I marshal my energy in preparation to exit. “You’ve got 30 days.”

“Have fun trying,” he snorts, a rancid sound erupting from his depths, setting his plentiful nose hairs fluttering as it escapes. 

I pause, and my jaw clenches. It was true - the one thing I managed to pry out of the never-ending legal battle to take possession of the building my mother - the former Mrs. Pelaratti - had left me was the axiom “Never go to court against a lawyer representing himself.” Without the prohibition of lawyer’s fees to rein him in, Len Pelaratti could argue until the very extinction of humanity.  

One deep inhale and my shoulders fall back to their natural level. I turn to exit but don't bother to look at 

him. I don't need to. The monolith of his face may as well be tattooed on my hippocampus.

“30 days, Leonard.” The words skate out of my mouth into an icy arabesque around the fat jowls festooning

his face.

“Or what?” He summons the usual snarl. But this time, this time, the feint bounces off me, dropping to his naked ankles and settling sleepily around his tasselled black loafers. 

“Or I call your daughter.”